


Swords II / letters have no arms to hold

by zoicite



Category: Gideon the Ninth - Tamsyn Muir, Harrow the Ninth - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Epistolary, F/F, HtN prologue spoilers, Soul Sex, Speculation, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-14 23:56:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21024350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoicite/pseuds/zoicite
Summary: They told us that this was how it worked, that as soon as we were in the River, you’d surface to fill, train and ultimately protect the bodies we’ve left behind.





	1. Swords II

**Author's Note:**

> This is… something. Spoilers for Gideon the Ninth, of course, but also for the Harrow the Ninth prologue. I picked up bits and pieces from that, and ignored the rest. Credit for pointing out the potential implications of a Lyctor who is half cavalier + Lyctorhood half spent in the River is all Tumblr's humanjeff. That discussion was a giant lightbulb of 'oh, duh, that would make a lot of sense' for me.

Dear Atramentous Bone Empress, Cimmerian Necro-Goddess, the Inky Keeper of my Soul,

Hey, surprise! It’s me. So -- this is weird, huh. Well, maybe not for you. I don’t know how it is for you, but probably less strange by now. It’s pretty fucking weird for me!

Did we know this is what we were signing on for? Because I don’t think I really understood. Waking up was sure a shock. First, because I thought I was back in my own body, so I was flailing around feeling my chest for gaping holes. Instead my fingers caught on bone, human ribs to be exact! Which is gross, by the way, and also pretty horrifying thinking I’d returned as a reanimated version of my own skeleton. I really thought for a moment that you’d turned me into some kind of bone puppet. 

What is Harrow planning to do with me like this? I wondered. Skeletons are no good for late night cuddles -- Come on, we all know you’ve tried it. Everyone on the Ninth has attempted a cuddle with a skeleton at one point or another -- But no! It was just your decorative rib cage, your bone corselet, your creepy death jewelry. 

Oh, okay, I thought. Look at that. I’m literally inside Harrow. Fucking weird, but hey. Better than a bone puppet. 

So I sat your body up, and I found I was on the floor of a training room I’ve never seen before. You know I like training rooms quite a lot, so that part was good, until I turned and there was Ianthe Tridentarius! What shitty luck! I reached for my sword -- no sword anywhere. No rapier, no longsword. Harrow, where is my sword? -- And it wasn’t even Ianthe, it was _worse_. No sword, and here’s Naberius the fucking Third, just woke up in Ianthe’s body and spitting mad, face all red, chest puffed up like pictures of roosters in comics from the Second, and somehow as I was watching, Ianthe’s hair poofed up like the hair gel was just oozing up from her head pores and ossifying her hair follicles. 

Oh, so this _is_ hell, I thought. 

(I asked and was informed it is not hell. Just the Necrolord’s spaceship with a fancy pretentious name.)

I met your very serious and scary new friend Augustine the First. Well, his cavalier. Augustine’s cavalier was there waiting for us to wake up, very patiently, and he managed to calm Naberius down. I guess once you’re roughly 10,000 years old you have a lot of experience with that kind of thing. It turns out, as Augustine explains it, that you and Ianthe are ‘in the River’, whatever exactly that means. And while you’re training ‘in the River’, Naberius and I have been tasked with training our wimpy new necro bodies into some semblance of fitness. I get to teach you to hold a sword. Hope you like sore muscles. 

Here’s another kicker: Augustine the Cavalier wouldn’t tell us his real name, and he won’t call us by ours. They really take this one flesh thing very seriously, don’t they. I’m Harrowhark the First here. No Gideon, no _Babs_. So whatever I get up to from this day forward is 100% a reflection on you now. The possibilities. Maybe this really isn’t hell after all.

Anyway. Once Augustine gave us the introduction to this very important Lyctor training regimen (Swords II - Training Your Flimsy New Body to Fight Like a Lyctor), I excused myself to use the toilet. Don’t worry, Harrow. I’m not actually using the toilet and I didn’t undress you. I probably will have to eventually though. I don’t know how long you’re planning to be gone. For now I needed an excuse to get away from them and get this down.

Mostly, I just wanted to say hi. And also, this is weird. And I hope you find this letter. I didn’t want to leave it anywhere too obvious. And I also wanted to say, did we make a mistake? Maybe we should have died instead? If I wake up in this body, do I need to paint it? And finally, where’s my other body? Hopefully not on the Ninth. I don’t want your great-aunts dancing my bones around in the leek fields, and I _especially_ don’t want Crux anywhere within 10,000 light years of my corpse.

And lastly, my sword. Please please _please_ tell me you didn’t lose my sword.

Yours (literally),  
Gideon

**

Griddle,

It’s good to hear from you. They told us that this was how it worked, that as soon as we were in the River, you’d surface again to fill, train and ultimately protect the bodies we’ve left behind, but it was hard to know if it could really be true. I haven’t been allowed to examine the theorems, nor managed to get at them on my own yet, and I couldn’t feel you at all. I- always seemed to have N- tugging at her and I still couldn’t feel you at all. I was convinced I’d done something wrong, missed a step of the megatheorem in the chaos of the moment. I was sure I’d wake up alone again, back in the training room with no sign of you and no idea what or who to believe. So as you can imagine, your letter was a welcome (though potentially irresponsible) discovery. 

I do not know how to explain the River to you, or if I should even try. If you’d come to services on the Ninth more often than once a decade you’d be familiar with what is usually said of it. That it’s the place between life and death. It’s where the Eighth hid when S. Octakiseron forced him from his body. It’s where monsters and resurrection beasts lie in wait and it’s the Emperor’s primary focus in this war. 

That last part about the monsters is in theory -- we’ve seen no monsters yet. I don’t know if you’d feel it if we had, but I suspect that you would. 

Regarding your other questions, yes, I believe we made a mistake, but all choices available to us were poor in that moment and what’s done is done. It’s too soon to know how much our choices will cost us. Rest assured, I have your beloved longsword. I have the rapier as well -- I believe it’s in the training room. The longsword is in a box beneath the bed. But Griddle, the rapier is a much more sensible weapon considering our current circumstances, don’t you think? 

Lyctor training is said to take a century, but we don’t have that now. We must be ready for battle in three months time.

Your body is still, presumably, somewhere on the First. I was informed that the Lyctors were unable to locate and reclaim C. Tridentarius, C. Hect, your body, or the body of J. Deuteros. It doesn’t add up though, does it? I’ve tried to speak with I- about it, but she seems unconcerned by her sister’s fate.

I am ignoring your comment on undressing and the toilet. I understand how a body functions and that you’ll have to do what you have to do. I don’t need to hear when and how you’re getting it done. Stop trying to get a rise out of me. There’s no point when you aren’t even here to see it. 

I would also prefer that we keep wearing the robes and the face paint, but should the time arise when you are in a position to make that decision yourself, you may use your judgement. I trust you to do what is best. Please take care of yourself -- of us -- while I’m away. 

I do not think we should make a habit of corresponding this way unless something happens that absolutely needs to be imparted. That said, it honestly is very good to hear from you, Griddle.

Regards,  
Harrowhark Nonagesimus  
Harrowhark the First  
The Reverend Daughter of the House of the Ninth

**

My Temporarily Departed, my Dear Lady Osseus, Lyctor for the New Myriad,

It is good to hear from you? You thought I was dead and gone and you were alone, and ‘it’s good to hear from you’ is all I get? I give you everything you’ve _ever_ wanted; me dead, you a Lyctor, and you come back with ‘Oh, hello, Griddle. It’s good to hear from you, don’t ever write again unless things get super shitty, signed the Reverend Daughter of the House of the Ninth?!’

Harrow. I can’t _not_ talk to you, and if writing love notes on flimsy is the only way to do that, then I’m sorry. You’re getting notes on flimsy. 

What happened to ‘first flower of my house?’ Did you think I’d just forget that entire conversation? The one that made me realize I had always been and always would be yours. That resulted in my empty body full of holes and floating around who knows where (but presumably not on the Ninth, which is truly a blessing. Canaan House seems a marginally better place to ditch your body than the Ninth House). 

Okay, all right. I know you. I can read between the lines, but I won’t stop writing.

We definitely made the wrong choice, Harrow. We could be done now, relaxing on the other side of your River, picking daisies and braiding the stems into chains to adorn your dark hair. I’d feed you grapes -- I’ve never had grapes, have you? Do they have grapes on this ship?

One hundred years of training? One hundred years!

This is all really very stupid, isn’t it? If Augustine and the rest of these necromancers were so smart a myriad ago, why didn’t they come up with a way to get the weeny necromancer into the body of the strapping cavalier, already in fighting shape and trained for a sword? The adept half of a Lyctor is doing their necromantics out of body half the time anyway. You’ve spent most of these last few days ‘in the River’. Necromancy must not be tied to the meat suit then.

Think about it -- they’ve got us training all day long just to build some semblance of muscle mass. 

And anyway, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’ve been inside me before and you seemed to like it then. I know I’d like it. I mean, if I’m being honest, and I usually am, I don’t necessarily mind this either, but you inside me? Weird at first, grew on me pretty quick.

Do you think they ever even tried it? Getting the necromancer into the cavalier? 

Ah well. Can’t go back now, though if anyone could have fixed this Lyctor setup, it would have been you. Or maybe Palamedes. Either way, not happening, too late for us. So, new plan. 

If we’re going to equip this body for my sword _before_ we’re thrown straight into this war, it’s going to take the both of us. Here’s what you need to do:

Morning:  
50 sit ups  
50 push ups  
50 chin ups

I’ll do the other 50 reps while you’re out of body. If you can’t do 50, we can start with 25 and work our way up. I’ll know by the state of these noodle arms if you don’t keep up your end. 

Another thing. If you’re at home in your body during the middle of the day, I need you to eat lunch. If you’re here during the morning, I need you to eat breakfast, and if you’re here at night, please eat something then too. And water. I knew this even when I lived in a separate body, but it’s very obvious now. You live in a permanent state of dehydration, which is great for showing off muscle definition, but pointless if you don’t have any muscles to show.

I refuse to use a rapier for the next myriad. One flesh, one end. Sometimes life’s a shitty bitch.

Occasional and Most Devoted Resident of Your Innards,  
Gideon

**

Griddle,

What makes you think I have time for any of that? What do you think I’m doing here, whiling away time twiddling my thumbs? 

I’m sorry if I’ve hurt your feelings. I’m not entirely comfortable leaving emotive letters lying about for anyone -- and I think you know who I mean here when I say _anyone_ \-- to happen upon. If there was a way for us to communicate that didn’t leave a trail of of flimsy, the content of my note would have been vastly different. As there is apparently no other way at this time, you’ll have to forgive my restraint. And I ask that you practice some restraint on your end as well, if you would. 

Regarding your new plan: it isn’t as bad as all that. Though it appears that we can rarely, if ever, consciously occupy my body at the same time -- unless you tried to fight our union, as N- did at the start in Canaan House -- it shouldn’t matter. The theorems are quite clear. During a battle, it should work much like it does for the Cohort’s necromancers and cavaliers. The thanergy created fighting revenants is used to charge the body -- in essence, the cavalier. You’ll see, Griddle. My small necromancer’s arms will see us through.

Regards,  
Harrow

**

My Cold Uncaring Collaborator and Co-Habitator, 

Your noodle necromancer arms will see us through? You really think so? Because, I don’t, and last I checked, I’m the expert swordswoman in this body. _Our_ arms will give out mid-battle, I’ll lose a fight with the so-called heralds, whatever they are (giant space bugs?) and we’ll both die horribly, disgustingly, way _way_ worse than my first death, and all because Harrow can’t spend time eating breakfast or doing a few push ups? 

What will our Necromancer Prime think about that? No medals or awards for the Ninth if we die in our first battle. No resurrection, or rejuvenation, or rebirth -- whatever was promised. The Emperor won’t be sprouting babies from dry bones on the Ninth if his new star Lyctor’s already kicked it! Oh, no, wait a moment. Maybe he _would_ still plan to fulfill his promise as repayment for the sacrifice of Pelleamena Novenarius and Priamhark Noniusvianus. 

Oops! 

Nevermind, he just went to the Ninth House to pay his respects and discovered your parents have been meat puppets that we’ve been parading around for a decade!

Come on, Harrow. It’s just breakfast and a few sit-ups and my undying devotion.

On a brighter note, I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know that I’m adjusting better to being here inside your puny frame than Naberius is to being stuffed into Ianthe. I’ve bested him in every sparring match we’ve fought this week without having to resort to punching him in Ianthe’s face even once. Though that would have been very satisfying too.

And here’s another interesting tid-bit of gossip for you: it seems his soul is sucking out all of her moisture. He’s using an awful lot of lip balm on those lips. Not that they were ever as plump and moist as her sister’s to begin with. Coronabeth Tridentarius. Is there anyone else in the Necroverse like Corona? If only I was here sparring with her! I’m comforted by the fact that wherever my abandoned meat ran off to, it’s with the glorious Coronabeth and scary Camilla Hect. 

Did I tell you about the time I fought Camilla and she did a backflip down a flight of stairs? Do you think I could get your body to do that?

Hope you like the surprises I’ve left you. 

How’s that for restraint? Learned from the best.

Dreaming of Corona Yet Forever Yours,  
Gideon

**

_[A small scrap of flimsy pressed into the top a tub of face paint in the bathroom]:_  
Pro tip: You can do push ups against a sink or a wall until we build up some muscles.

_[Tucked into Harrow’s leatherbound book of notes]:_  
I bet Coronabeth Tridentarius would agree to be my pen pal.

_[In the pocket of Harrow’s cloak]:_  
Now’s a great time for sit-ups!

_[Folded in with Harrow’s veil]:_  
Corona looks like she does push-ups, don’t you think?

_[Beneath Harrow’s pillow]:_  
There are many more where this came from! Note (#12/132). Collect them all!

**

Griddle,

Coronabeth Tridentarius? Really, Nav? 

If I’m completely open and honest with you, in this one singular letter, will you cease this flurry of flimsy you’re determined to bombard me with? I don’t understand how the Lyctor training regimen leaves you enough free time to do all that! 132 notes! If it comes down to it, I don’t think it’s my scrawny arms that will get us killed. And if I have to find one more word on errant flimsy about my lack of an exercise regimen and how you’d rather be stuck with Coronabeth Tridentarius, I’ll burn this room to the ground, move to another, and never leave this body before first shutting you out, locking the door, and swallowing the key. You’ll be able to get in, eventually, but it’ll take some _nasty_ work. 

Before I begin, please promise me that you’ll destroy this note once you read it. Ianthe loves a good puzzle, and she’s eager to get her hands on anything that looks remotely like the piece of one. It’s bad enough that our quarters are now littered with tiny bits of flimsy covered in her sister’s ridiculous name.

All right. Here goes.

I miss you more than this heart can truly bear, Gideon. I would do anything to have you back at my side, as you were. I fell to my knees and begged the Necromancer Prime to make it so. He tells me it’s impossible. I don’t know that I believe him, but that’s too much, even for this letter. I was not lying in those last few moments of our separated lives. You are the flower of the Ninth House, truly the best of all of us. A myriad from now no one will remember the name Mattias Nonius. Everyone will yearn for the next coming of Gideon Nav. I will make sure of it.

I ache thinking about what might have been if we’d tried to understand each other sooner, if I’d stopped building walls of bone, stopped (as you say) trying to cuddle skeletons. I truly can’t imagine the universe without you in it, even as I lived it, and finding your first letter was the only thing able to warm my heart since you left my side. I was so sure we had made a mess of it, had botched the steps to the Lyctor ascension, that I’d lost you forever. And now, here you are. Further than I’d choose, but far closer than I believed you to be before.

Do you remember our time in the pool at Canaan House? Just before you accused me of having a crush on -- I can’t write it here, but I’m sure you can fill in the blank -- you leaned in and I really thought you might kiss me. Did you think you might?

I thought that if you kissed me, my heart would literally explode from my chest. I didn’t deserve it, I don’t deserve any of this, and in that moment I wanted to run as far away from you as I could get, I wanted to push you into the pool and hold you under with both my hands and a few skeletal ones for support. I wanted to force you back to the Ninth, make you hate me more than you ever had before. And all the while, I wanted that kiss more than I’ve wanted anything in my entire miserable life. I was so terrified you might actually do it, and horrified at how I might react. And now I have no idea if I made it all up! Maybe you don’t even know what I’m talking about, maybe you never thought to do it, not even for a second. 

Don’t answer that. I don’t want to read the answer to that on a sheet of flimsy. It’s too permanent, too personal and far too pathetic. 

I should destroy this letter now lest it ends up in hands other than ours. I won’t. Instead, I will tell you that this morning I completed 20 push-ups against the bathroom wall and 10 sit ups before I sat down for a tasteless, yet nutritious breakfast. Please know that I do this for you. Everything, from that last separated moment on the terrace until now, on and on forever, I do for you. I endure for you. 

Your undeserving necromancer,  
Harrow

**

My Tenebrous Temptress, 

Harrow.

You’ve struck me speechless. To be fair, you’ve struck me speechless before out of duty, but this is an actual loss of words. I’ve started this note three times, and each time it’s devolved into puns, my usual (very humerus) jokes. I don’t want to do any of that here. I’m left with incoherent grunts, a body embarrassingly foreign and completely alight, and nothing I can do with any of it other than thrash Naberius in training (I will do this gladly. I’ve learned most of his tricks by now. You should see him rage at the injustice of it all). Naberius aside, there’s no more room for deflection with us, is there? We’ve always been so damn good at that though.

I have the letter that you wrote here beside me, and I know I have to destroy it, but I don’t know if I can bring myself to do it. I am so tempted to keep this note on our person at all times, always for the rest of time. I just have to figure out how to hide it from you. Impossible, I know. And I know that if I do anything other than destroy it, you’ll ever write to me that way again. We’ll be back to keys hidden in shit (genius by the way, though you know I’d get that key -- literal shit can’t stop me, Harrow -- and then I’d fill your life with every imaginable inconvenience in return).

So that’s it then. I’ve destroyed it. It’s gone, along with all of the others. I retrieved every piece of flimsy from our quarters, every scrap that you’d not yet found. There’s no trace of Coronabeth Tridentarius -- except for the trace I just wrote here. 

I can’t tell if you actually want this answered or not, but of course I wanted to kiss you, you complete tool, you utter oblivious moron (I’m saying this to myself as well. There are two utter morons stuffed in this tiny body). I spent _years_ on the Ninth fantasizing about throwing you over the edge of Drearburh. It’s easy to admit that. Less easy to admit is that I spent an equal amount of time imagining our endless battles giving way to the desperate and angry tearing of robes and then much more salacious things coming after the desperate and angry tearing of robes. Broken bone jewelry, smeared face paint, actual glimpsed skin -- and those are the tame bits. I imagined joining the Cohort and coming home triumphant, arms full of rewards for the Ninth, you there in awe and ready with your own sort of reward. I’ve read a lot of nasty magazines, Harrow. My head has been filled with every filthy scenario there is. I’ve thought about kissing you in every and any way imaginable at one point or another over those many years.

Now I guess I should have done it. I honestly wasn’t sure. A hug seemed too much, your head on my shoulder, your hand in mine. That was huge for me, enormous. I didn’t think I could handle more and I wasn’t sure you would want it if I tried.

Hey, when you get back inside us, do some flexing, feel your arms in front of the mirror. It’s slow going, but I think they’re coming along nicely. We’ll get your scrawny angular bird body into longsword shape yet. It really has been a lot of work just to get us this far! 

All of your secrets are safe with me, Harrow. I’m your cavalier, your creature, your other half. 

One flesh, one end,  
Gideon

**

Griddle,

I don’t know what to do with those last paragraphs of your letter. I suppose I asked for that, but considering where we’ve ended up, I’m going to have to pretend I never read it and we’ll move on. 

Writing it all down instead of having to admit everything face to face, has been both a relief and painfully insufficient. I know that if you were standing here before me, every inch of you down to your unsettling eyes and ridiculous hair, I would shut down, unable to handle the things we’ve said, unable to make a next move. Instead, I write this down and I know that once I’m in the River, it’s done. You’ll read it and destroy it and I don’t need to be there to see your reactions as they blossom on my own face. But it’s all I can do to concentrate in the River when my mind is preoccupied with anticipation of your next words. I hope you are faring better with your sword. It sounds like you are, and the soreness in my limbs and torso attest to this. 

It will require true partnership to survive this war. I’m convinced that we will come out far better in the end for having written these truths, for having finally been honest with each other, as moritifying as it feels to allow you access to every inch of my heart and my undeserving soul, and as disturbing as it may be to have access to parts of yours. 

I know I said I was going to pretend I didn’t read those last few paragraphs of your last letter, but I do have something of my own to admit. Forgive me, Griddle, but I now feel ever so slightly justified in sneaking into your room over the years, rifling through your magazines, and ripping out any pages you’d marked, sometimes entire magazines that you seemed particularly drawn to. They’re all stashed in a drawer in my parents’ room, the last place I knew you’d ever look. I had no idea at the time that you’d involved me in any of it within your alarming little brain. Despite this, knowing that I did not interpret you incorrectly in that moment beside the pool fills my heart with an embarrassing warmth. 

Today we encountered a revenant. Perhaps you already know that. It was a single beast, smaller than most, and likely planted by A- to test our skill. It nearly tore us apart. There are so many bones in the River, Nav. It seems impossible, but no. You should see the things I can create with that much bone.

Please destroy immediately upon reading.

This world and the next,  
Harrow

**

My Kleptomaniacal Bone Charmer,

You were the one stealing from my things! I should have known. I think I _did_ know. You stole so much from me right in front of my face over the years, but there was this niggling part of me worried that in this case it might actually be Crux. I did not want to find out if that was true. I wouldn’t have been able to handle knowing that truth. What a fucking relief. It was just the Reverend Daughter with a secret interest in what it takes to get Gideon Nav hot and bothered. _Harrow_. What did you do with the titty mags? You didn’t just throw them into a drawer and forget about them. Did you look at them? Of course you did. Did you enjoy them? I’m going to need all of the excruciating details on this, my Little Bird.

I had an entire issue featuring redheads. I found it off-putting, too close to home. It was an enormous disappointment when it showed up on the delivery shuttle, and then it disappeared from my room one afternoon never to be seen again. 

Anything you want to tell me about that?

I’ll wait. 

Ha ha! I have so much to occupy my thoughts now. What a gift you’ve given me. 

Now the response I’m sure you’re skimming impatiently to reach: I did not feel your battle with the revenant, but that’s probably because (also not news to you by now) we had a similar training happening at the same time. A- somehow managed to wrangle a herald and set it loose in the training room. It actually _is_ a giant bug! A giant bug of chitin and flesh and a surprising amount of actual bone. Huge wings! And the heat! We were soaked through with green bug goop by the time we brought it down. I scrubbed your body thoroughly, every nook and cranny. I must have done an adequate job. If you’d found goop in your hair or your nethers, I’m sure you would have let me know.

The part you’re likely to find most interesting (aside from the nook and cranny scrubbing) is that dismantling the monster bug felt a lot like taking down the bone construct in Response & Imaging. Do you remember how I told you I could see that hazy light in the joints, just before you told me where to hit? An impossible thanergetic signature, you said. It appears on the heralds as well. I’m not sure if it’s a side effect of residing within the body of a necromancer or if it’s just cute Lyctor things. I just know that I know Harrowhark Nonagesimus, and that’s exactly the kind of information you want to know.

Increasingly Intimately Yours,  
Gideon

**

Griddle,

Do you feel that split second when you’re still here and I start to return, or when I leave, and you begin to surge forth? That fraction of a moment when our souls slide past each other? N- still fights against I- at every opportunity, tries to hold on to her body and block her from returning, and she said that she hopes he never stops, that the feeling is exquisite and the power is unmatched. You and I had already moved past all of that before our ascension, but since Ianthe said what she said -- and the way that she said it. It was not appropriate conversation and I had to walk away immediately. I truly believed she was just trying to get a rise out of me. 

Since then, I’ve started paying more attention. And there _is_ something there. The moment when our souls slide past each other, there’s a shiver of -- I can’t describe it, except to say that it’s somehow sweet like bursts of sugar on the tongue, and it’s so bright, a brilliant flash of blinding white. The feeling is so intense that if it lasted for longer than a mere moment, it seems to me that there’s potential to completely overwhelm a Lyctor, throw a Lyctor into… I don’t have the words. The closest thing I can come up with is a torture of ecstasy. Do you feel that? 

I’ve stumbled upon a theorem in my research that I think may shed light on this. It must be a subject from at a later stage in Lyctor training. A- has not mentioned anything of the sort in any of our teachings thus far. I think that moment might be important, and I won’t let Ianthe have that edge.

I will continue my research and will keep you apprised of my findings. Please pay attention and let me know your impressions. With restraint. In addition, please destroy this note immediately upon reading. 

Harrow

**

Harrow,

You didn’t answer me. Do you have my copy of _Regal Redheads of the Third_ or not?

I didn’t know you’d tasted Magnus’s dessert. Sweet bursts of sugar on the tongue?? 

I know what you’re describing, and yes, I’ve felt it. It does not last nearly long enough and it’s embarrassing to come out of that brief state and into a room where you’re surrounded by the most tiresome and loathsome cavaliers, all equally flushed and flustered. 

I do have the exact words for how this soul sliding feels, and I’ll tell you those words now. It feels like a fucking orgasm, Harrow. Please tell me you’ve -- nevermind. Don’t tell me. Just slide against my soul some more. You deserve it. 

What were you _doing_ with all of my magazines?! You really did just stash them in a drawer, didn’t you? Oh, my poor naive and oblivious necro. We had so much to learn together.

You do know that this raises all kinds of funny yet uncomfortable questions though, don’t you? For instance, Ianthe’s been walking around in ecstasy over Naberius at all hours of the day? Really? This puts an entirely different spin on their relationship and explains why Babs always seems so spent and angry during training. Also, we’re two souls in your one body. Teacher, on the other hand -- how many souls were stuffed into that little old man frame? Fifty? Hundreds? No wonder he was so cheery all the time!

You’re welcome,  
Gideon

**

Gideon, 

I do have the magazine, yes. Now please shut up about that. You’re making me regret telling you. Time to be serious for a moment.

I’d like to try something. Please hear me out. As soon as you feel me start to return from the River, I want you to fight me. Do not give in. Don’t let me have the body back.

If what I’ve learned is correct, your fight will allow us to be together in the same place at the same time. Maybe not for long this time, but if it works, we can build up to more. I found the theorem in A-’s books. I’m fairly certain he left it out on purpose, and therefore, this must be a direction that all Lyctors head toward eventually. 

You’ll need to make sure you’re back in our room as soon as the training session is completed. Run if you must. Get to our room, inside my bone wards, and lock the door. Turn off the lights as well. Perhaps we should wait, but I don’t want to do this for the first time under A- or the N.P.’s watchful eyes. I want to do this with you alone, Griddle. We’ll have to be careful and we’ll have to be quiet, but we’ll be together. One flesh. Please try. 

My Love Always,  
Harrow


	2. letters have no arms to hold

Harrowhark Nonagesimus’s body quaked silently within the inky blackness of her room. She fell back onto her bed, shivered and shook and curled in on herself. Her mouth emitted a series of gasps and incomprehensible mutterings, and then fell into silence. 

The room was still. A line of five skeletons stood sentinel at the door, obscured by the stygian gloom. They’d sprouted as soon as Harrow returned from the River. While Gideon fought to hold on, they rose from a layer of fine bone dust on the floor. 

“Harrow?” Harrow the First whispered into the dark.

Harrow twitched once and then gasped again. 

“Oh,” Harrow whispered. “It worked. Hold on, Gideon. Just a little longer.”

“I’m holding,” Harrow replied, the tone of her voice slightly deeper, slightly less Harrow. “There’s no way this is how it’s supposed to be done. This is fucking weird, but it also feels fucking amazing. No one is winning wars this way.”

A long moment of quiet, the only sound in the room her rapid breathing, the rustle of fingers scraping and gripping at bed sheets.

“Why?” Harrow asked eventually, a pained grunt.

“Because it’s -- Harrow, it’s literally soul fucking,” she hissed. “It’s soul sex. What _is_ this?”

“Shh,” Harrow admonished herself. “The Emperor is always listening. Oh. Oh I -- stop making it sound so vulgar. This is the most -- Perhaps a Lyctor gets used to it after a while.“

Harrow laughed at that, a loud bark of surprise, and then clapped a hand over her own mouth. Once Harrow was sure she could contain herself, the hand fall away.

“Don’t be a fool, Nav. Any number of people may be trying to listen.”

Harrow shuddered in the dark. 

“How much longer can you hold on?”

A pause. A shiver. Bursts of sweetness in her gut, against her tongue, the feeling of bright exquisite light rolling under her skin.

“I can hold on as long as you need.” 

Harrow laughed again, but this time it was nearly silent and quickly became something that, to any ears that may be listening, sounded closer to a sob. “Don’t say that, Griddle. I’ll trap you here. I’ll make you stay forever.”

Harrow’s fingers returned to her mouth, but not to cover it this time. Instead she pressed two fingers carefully against Harrow’s chapped lips. They stayed there for a long moment before Harrow’s body seemed to understand, and then she pressed a slow kiss to her own fingers. 

“Can I touch you before I let go?” 

“Gideon -- “ Harrow started. 

She kissed her own palm, lips trailing across her skin. She dragged kisses over her own flesh, turned her wrist so the kisses ran over the back of her hand. Harrow’s palm pressed to her face, cupping her paint streaked cheek. She nuzzled into it, bit her own palm, pressed her tongue to the warm skin, moaned long and low.

“I’m going to figure out a way to undo this,” she whispered, lips forming the words against the inside of her wrist. Her fingers slid up into her hair, stopping to pluck at the bone in her ear before sliding down her neck to rest at her collarbone.

“Shh, Harrow. Undo what.” Harrow’s other hand moved now too, palm pressed to her small breasts. Her fingers found a tightened nipple and stopped there to trace its shape. Gideon had removed the bone corselet as soon as she’d thrown herself into their room, a full minute before Harrow returned. She’d thrown off her cloak and left it pooled in the middle of the bone dust on the floor, and then tossed the bones into the pile after it. The only barrier between Harrow’s hand and the flesh of Harrow’s chest was the thin black fabric of her shirt. It was too much fabric.

“This,” Harrow managed to get out, eventually. “Us. I’m going to get you back; I just need to figure out _how_. I don’t believe for a moment that these Lyctors figured out how to get us here, but in 10,000 years no one tried to go back.”

Her hand was under her shirt now, exploring the soft skin of her stomach, then back up to her breasts. 

Harrow continued, voice hushed and breathing erratic, “The First is not a better place for a body than the Ninth. The only good thing about the First is that whatever has taken over your form will likely preserve it.”

Harrow stilled, hands stopping their exploration to consider this new information.

“Whatever has taken over my form?” Her hands pushed, agitated, at the fabric of her shirt. “You mean like what happened to the Eighth? Something from the River, wasn’t it?”

“Griddle.”

“No,” Harrow shook her head. “Can we talk about this later?” 

“I don’t want to write it down.”

“Later, Harrow,” Harrow said, voice too loud again. Her body flinched in warning and when Harrow’s voice continued, the words were hushed and controlled again. “We can discuss it in person, another time. Don’t we have time to just -- slide souls for a while without discussing the potential defilement of my corpse? I can’t think about that now while I feel like this. I can’t handle ruining my memory of this.”

Harrow was silent, her breath coming heavy and uneven as Gideon shifted within her and another wave of pleasure rolled through them both. 

“This isn’t enough, Gideon,” Harrow managed, once she was able to open her eyes, to form words again.

“I know.”

Harrow’s hand slid down her chest, across her stomach to the edge of her trousers. There the hand stopped as though waiting for a signal to proceed. That sign came with a silent push at the fabric of the trousers and then Harrow’s fingers slipped beneath the waistline, down into dark coarse hair and then finally, finally, across slick skin. Harrow bit at her lips to quiet herself, but couldn’t stop the small moan, low and yearning in her throat. 

Together they worked Harrow’s hand, moving to the same cues, the same body signals. Harrow's fingers worked circles around her clit before settling in against the right side, sliding, sliding.

“Oh.”

“We’re so --”

Their fingers worked faster. Oh, faster, _more_, hand shaking until a new wave of pleasure struck, the rush hitting too fast, too soon, closer and sharper than any that had crested before. Sweet sweet light, and Harrow’s toes curled, her whole body folding in on itself. There were tears in her eyes, but she kept silent, breath pushing hard and fast through her nostrils. Her thighs were tight and tense, holding her fingers in place, not ready to let go. 

She was panting now, so hard and fast that it had to be audible from beyond the door, past the skeletons and the bone wards, throughout the corridors of the Mithraeum.

“Shh,” she gasped. “Shh.”

Harrow’s hand slid from between her legs. The movement of souls felt a little more subdued now, like aftershocks that pulsed through her, rocked her down from this new high. She paused, her thumb and forefinger sliding over each other, and then she brought her hand up and pressed her finger to her tongue, the salty tang of it a shock after so much sweetness. She jerked her hand away. 

“Gideon,” Harrow admonished, but her voice failed to portray anything but longing.

She reached back up and traced her finger against her lip.

“Too much?” 

“Shut up.” Even the tone of these words betrayed her, so she tried a different set. “Hold me for a while?”

Harrow wiped her fingers on the sheets of the bed, and then folded her arms across her chest, hands squeezing her upper arms. She pressed her back to the wall so she wouldn’t feel what was missing behind her.

“I have so much I planned to say,” Harrow whispered. 

Lights continued to flash within her, pulse after pulse, as Gideon’s soul held on and refused to let go. 

“Do you feel that?” she asked, hands running up and down her arms. “Baby muscles.”

A breath of a laugh. Her arms tightened. It wasn’t enough.


End file.
